A new biography by Kathleen Waters Sander tells the
story of Mary Elizabeth Garrett, philanthropist,
suffragist, and a major contributor to the founding of the
School of Medicine. The daughter of B&O Railroad magnate
John Work Garrett, Mary leveraged her significant
inheritance to advance women's rights and women's
education. In 1888, she and the rest of the "Friday Night"
club — Bessie King, Julia Rogers, Martha Carey
Thomas, and Mary "Mamie" Machall Gwinn — set out to
raise $100,000. That was the amount, according to Johns
Hopkins University President Daniel Coit Gilman, that would
be needed to open the medical school. Before they even
raised the money, Gilman upped the ante — to a
whopping $500,000.

The following excerpt, from Mary Elizabeth Garrett:
Society and Philanthropy in the Gilded Age, published
this month by the Johns Hopkins University Press, tells the
story of how Mary and the Friday Night not only reached
that extraordinary sum, but changed the face of education
at Hopkins in the process.

"The ladies' work is finished," the Baltimore
American announced in spring 1891.1 After more than two years of
countless moments of anxiety and elation, the Women's
Medical School Fund had reached its original $100,000 goal,
far short of the trustees' revised $500,000 endowment
requirement. But Mary was not quite ready to admit defeat
in the battle to open a coeducational medical school at
Hopkins.

As [WMSF chair] Nancy Morris Davis prepared to present the
Fund's $111,300 gift to the university, Mary made yet
another jolting proposal to the trustees. By this time, the
trustees should have been accustomed to her surprise
financial enticements. In a letter dated April 27, 1891, to
"Hon. George Dobbin, President of the Board of Trustees of
the Johns Hopkins University," Mary offered an additional
$100,000 to sweeten the deal. But as was becoming her
trademark, she attached a few strings. In order to receive
her money, she required that the trustees themselves raise
the balance to meet the $500,000 endowment by the following
February. Should the balance be raised, she also insisted,
the medical school must open in October 1892.2

Mary's proposal put the trustees in an awkward situation.
With no other offers of their own on the table, they
officially but reluctantly accepted the WMSF gift and
Mary's stringent conditions for her own offer. They
responded by stating "members of the board would endeavor
individually to obtain, before February 1, 1892, from
persons interested in higher medical education additional
contributions to the amount of $221,219.58." Bessie's
father, Francis King, president of the hospital board,
stated in regard to Mary's offer, "the amount is not
exceedingly large, but it is a very neat sum."3

Once again, the trustees, who were unable to raise the
money themselves, downplayed the women's roles. The press,
however, found the gift much more than a "very neat sum"
and was far more impressed with Mary's offer than the
trustees had been. It did not take the papers long to
enthusiastically report the news. Not only was the fund's
contribution an enormous amount in itself from a women's
group, but Mary's $100,000 added incentive was an
unprecedented philanthropic offer to a university from one
of the country's wealthiest women. To most Americans at the
time, the amount would have been incomprehensible. It was
more than quadruple what the average male wage earner in
the United States could expect to earn in a lifetime.

Just as two years earlier, when she financed the modern
Bryn Mawr School and supervised the construction of its
$500,000 building, Mary's name made headlines across the
country. With her additional $100,000 offer to Hopkins, her
reputation as one of the country's preeminent
philanthropists was solidified.

"Miss Garrett's Gift to Science," the New York
Telegraph proclaimed of the gift. The Sunday
Herald announced that "Her Royal Gift" signified that
"Johns Hopkins University will get a school of medicine for
men and women." In Cincinnati, where the Garrett name was
well known from the B&O lines that had run through the city
for half a century, the Cincinnati Enquirer lauded
"Miss Garrett's Munificent Gift," noting the successful
opening of the medical school depended "upon the Trustees
having in hand by February 1892, the remainder of the sum
necessary to complete the endowment." The Baltimore
American commented, "No estimate can be too high for
the permanent and far-reaching value of such a school. It
will be national in its scope, universal in its benefits to
medicine and to humanity."4

The St. Louis Republic, noting that city's paltry
contribution of only $550, felt compelled to chastise St.
Louisans for their lackadaisical response to the fund's
campaign. "St. Louis has yet contributed very
meagerly."5 The article
provided the names and addresses where contributions from
St. Louisans could be sent to add to the endowment.

Within days of making her enticing $100,000 offer, the
always-mysterious millionaire immediately left town,
leaving the trustees to ponder how to meet her terms of
raising more than $220,000 within ten months. Still
despondent over the WMSF's failure to raise the needed
endowment, Mary set sail on the SS Servia for
brighter weather, far away from the struggles of the
campaign and the seemingly endless impediments of the
trustees. She traveled to Europe, where she spent eighteen
months. Always a prolific letter writer, she wrote often of
the places she visited and the friends she saw. She
continued to manage the Bryn Mawr School from across the
Atlantic and to buy her beloved statuary and paintings to
fill her art gallery. But she seldom mentioned "the scheme"
that had occupied much of her time for the past three
years. Late in the summer, she met with her family in
Oxford, England. The rendezvous did little to lift her
spirits. "I have been far down in the depths in spite of
the pleasure of seeing Alice [wife of Mary's brother Harry]
and the boys ... I had gone back to my old way of not
sleeping." She felt "tired and restless."6 She moved on to Rome, always one
of her favorite cities, where she lived for several
months.

The latest impasse with the university, the second since
her 1887 proposal to Gilman to relocate the university,
hung heavily over her head. It made her physically sick and
emotionally distraught, particularly given the national
publicity the campaign — and she — had
received. In January 1892, as her imposed February deadline
for the trustees to raise the additional money approached,
Mary wrote to trustee Charles Morton Stewart to bring up
the issue. She reminded him of the fund's gift and her own
still outstanding, unresolved offer. Much to her credit,
she did not withdraw her offer; in fact, she gave the
university an indefinite amount of time to come up with the
additional funds. She stipulated only that she would give
the trustees a year's notice if she decided to withdraw the
offer. The Baltimore Sun explained, "The action of
Miss Garrett, one of the trustees says, will give the
university 'full time to consider in all its bearings the
questions of the opening of the medical school.'"7

Stewart's response was chilly and unpromising. Yes, he
wrote simply, the trustees would give her notice if they
decided not to make good on her $100,000 offer, affirming
her "instructions in case any future withdrawal will elicit
the appreciation of all the trustees." It was hardly an
enthusiastic reply. Still no decision. The campaign had
died and the negotiations were hopelessly stalled. Most
frustrating for Mary, the trustees could not raise the
balance. Mary wrote that she was "filled with despair."
Aside from Carey and Mamie, other fund organizers were not
pulling their weight to keep hope alive. "We cannot expect
Bessie to do anything, although she certainly has the
power," Mary wrote.8

Her annoyance and impatience with the trustees showed.
She offered not one penny more than the precise amount
needed to complete the endowment level.

Although she had requested that the trustees raise the
additional money, Mary continued to search for a donor to
meet the $500,000 goal. Finding a philanthropist interested
in contributing a major gift to medical education continued
to prove elusive. "I'm afraid this imaginary person does
not exist." She had heard a rumor that an elderly relative
of Bessie's had died and left money for the medical school,
but realized "it was just another house of
cards."9

She was angry with the trustees for not holding up their
end of the bargain. "So much emphasis was put on my share
in the matter and, in fact, the university did not pledge
itself to raise any of the money and has not done so," she
wrote to Carey in February 1892.10 That month marked the deadline
by which the trustees were to have raised the balance of
the funds. The campaign, once so promising, had become an
embarrassment to Mary, her family name, the Women's Medical
School Fund, and the university the fund had unwittingly
dragged into the national spotlight.

By late fall 1892, Mary returned to Baltimore. After
spending most of the past year and a half in the sunny
climes of southern Europe, she returned to face a brutally
cold winter on the East Coast. For the first time in over a
century, Niagara Falls froze. But events were beginning to
heat up in East Baltimore.

In November, Carey sent a distressed dispatch to Mary. The
"outlook is infinitely worse than I had thought," Carey
warned in a detailed memorandum entitled "Hospital Notes."
More than likely, this was a verbatim account of the
trustees' latest meeting, clandestinely conveyed by James
Thomas to his daughter. Carey related that the university
and the hospital, two separate legal entities, were engaged
in a power struggle over which one would open, and thereby
control, the proposed medical school. "If the university
got the big money then it — not the hospital —
would have to appoint the faculty." Carey warned "Mr.
King's old plan has been revived by him [Stewart] in order
to give the hospital control of the medical school." The
women must act immediately, Carey urged, before the
trustees' next meeting in mid-December, when the decision
was to be made. "No words can say what I should think of
such a medical school," Carey added, "Mamie will write to
her father to tell him to postpone the meeting."11 Carey encouraged Mary to write
yet another letter to Stewart, reminding him of the
outstanding offers.

Although reporting erroneous information or misinterpreting
it — Johns Hopkins had stated unambiguously in his
will that the medical school should be part of the
university and not the hospital — Carey's frantic
letter spurred Mary into instant action. Mary's fortitude
was once again restored and her anger piqued. She
desperately wanted the long, bitter race between the WMSF
and the university to end. She took matters into her own
hands. She had been so much identified with the campaign
that the failure of the fund and the university to raise
the endowment required that she step in to save face for
all involved.

She decided to contribute the balance — more than
$300,000 — herself.

With her inheritance inextricably tied to the precarious
B&O, the same company that had caused the university's
fortunes to fall, she did not make the decision lightly.
She met with Charles Mayer, a co-executor of her father's
estate, and told him of her plan. "I am representing all
with whom I had acted in the Women's Fund," she explained
of the meeting in a letter to Carey. Mayer made
arrangements with Charles Gwinn to present Mary's offer to
the trustees. Consulting with Carey, Mary outlined a draft
of the letter Gwinn would present to the trustees: "I am so
much interested in the establishment of the medical school
on the right basis that I am prepared to make a proposition
to complete the endowment." Mary explained to Carey the
strategy for presenting the offer to the university: "Mr.
Gwinn is willing to present this proposition with the
trustees."12 On
December 22, 1892, Gwinn presented her offer to the
board.

Mary offered to give the university $306,977. Her annoyance
and impatience with the trustees showed. She offered not
one penny more than the precise amount needed to complete
the endowment level, the astronomical $500,000 that had
been so far out of the reach of the WMSF campaign to raise.
She stipulated she would pay annual installments of $50,000
each, beginning in January 1894, the year after the school
opened, and continue through the final payment of $6,977,
to be paid on January 1, 1899.13 Since the university would not
receive the full endowment until the final year, she
offered to pay 5 percent interest each year.

When the trustees looked at Mary's final terms on that cold
December day, they might have wished they had opened the
medical school with her $100,000 offer — and less
stringent terms — a year and a half earlier. Mary,
too, had upped the ante. Just as she had done in April
1891, before leaving for Europe, Mary set forth
unprecedented terms, this time six rigorous conditions for
acceptance of her gift. She had expanded considerably upon
the fund's original caveat to simply admit women medical
students "on the same terms as men." She had more
far-reaching goals in mind for the new medical school.

First and foremost, the woman who had completed the
construction of the innovative Bryn Mawr School building
just two years earlier designated that a building be
erected at the new medical school to honor the vital role
women had played in calling attention to the sorry state of
American medicine and in revolutionizing medical education
and training. She knew the importance of a
bricks-and-mortar monument to the women's accomplishments.
She did not seek the spotlight for herself. Rather, she
instructed that the building be named the "Women's Fund
Memorial Building." Although the fund, with its roster of
some of the nation's wealthiest women, was rescued from
embarrassment when Mary contributed the lion's share of the
endowment, she nonetheless insisted that the women's
efforts be recognized. She stipulated that $50,000 of the
$500,000 endowment should be "expended on a building or
buildings . . . in memory of the contributions of the
Committees of the Women's Medical School Fund . . . [and
it] shall be known as the Women's Fund Memorial
Building."14

Reacting to the trustees' October 28, 1890, public
assurance that women medical students would limit their
studies to female-oriented medical fields — "in penal
institutions, in which women are prisoners, in charitable
institutions in which women are cared for, and in private
life, when women are to be attended" — Mary made a
subtle, but significant stipulation. Rather than limiting
women medical students' scope of study, she instead
insisted that women "enjoy all the advantages on the same
terms as men" as well as "all prizes, dignities, or honors"
that were afforded male students.15

To make certain future generations would not forget the
Women's Medical School Fund, Mary instructed that the
Resolution of October 28th, 1890, in which the trustees
agreed to the terms of the Women's Medical School Fund to
accept women students on the same terms as men, "shall be
printed each year in whatever annual or semi-annual
calendars may be issued announcing the courses of the
Medical School." She handpicked the first members of the
oversight committee: "Mrs. Henry M. Hurd and Mrs. Ira
Remsen, both of whom were active members of the Baltimore
Committee of the Women's Medical School Fund; Mrs. William
Osler; Miss M. Carey Thomas and Miss Mamie M. Gwinn, the
two friends who have been most closely associated with me
in promoting the opening of the Medical School, both of
whom are daughters of Trustees of the University; and
myself."16

Of most significance to the future of medicine, Mary
stipulated unprecedented academic terms that would equal
those of the great, centuries-old European universities.
She insisted that the "Medical School of the University
shall be exclusively a Graduate School . . . [and] shall
form an integral part of the Johns Hopkins University . . .
[and] shall provide a four years' course, leading to the
Doctor of Medicine." She required that students have
knowledge "imparted in the preliminary Medical Course,"
which meant that they would have a background in the
sciences as well as be fluent in French and German. She
also required that students successfully pass examinations
based on the preliminary medical course as well as their
studies in the medical school before receiving their
degrees.

Gilman had first recommended such standards in 1876, when
he proposed a specific curriculum, as he noted, "for one
who looks toward a course in medicine," by including
courses in chemistry, physics, modern languages, and
philosophy. Dr. William Welch had similarly enumerated many
of the academic requirements years earlier, never imagining
that such lofty standards could actually be implemented.
"She naturally thought this is what we wanted," Welch later
commented on Mary's gift. "It is one thing to build an
educational castle in the air at your library table, and
another to face its actual appearance under the existing
circumstances."17

Perhaps of greatest surprise was Mary's deadline for the
opening of the medical school that had taken so long to
establish. She insisted that it open in less than a year
— by "autumn of 1893 and notice of such intended
opening shall be given on February 22, 1893." That date
would commemorate the seventeenth anniversary of the
inauguration of the Johns Hopkins University in 1876. Carey
was thrilled with Mary's firm decision and the trustees'
sudden flurry of activity. "Dixon [a trustee] was simply
charmed to see father & now he is talking to Gilman," Carey
wrote. "Good night, my dear," she added, sending "kisses of
congratulations."18

Two days later, on Christmas Eve 1892, nineteen years to
the day after Johns Hopkins had died, the trustees met at a
hastily convened meeting at the home of Charles Gwinn to
officially accept Mary's "munificent gift." Their
resolution provided "a memorial of her liberality to this
University and . . . its obligations to her." Johns
Hopkins's dream for a medical school came one step closer
to reality — thanks to Mary's "holiday gift," as her
contribution has since been called. Charles Gwinn
telegrammed Gilman, then staying in New York at the Fifth
Avenue Hotel, informing him of the board's
decision.19

Gilman was mortified. He rushed back to Baltimore, shocked
at the trustees' acceptance of the terms of the gift. He
feared the wording on Mary's admissions stipulations
restricted academic freedom, was too binding, and might one
day cause embarrassment if the 1892 standards were applied
in perpetuity. He also worried about the language
requirements of fluency in French and German. Carey felt
that was a weak excuse. Bryn Mawr College, she coyly
pointed out, had 170 students at that time, "everyone of
whom has passed our examination for reading French and
German. It is folly to suppose that men cannot do the same
at a much more mature age."20

Gilman had good reason to be apprehensive. Years earlier,
when the University of Pennsylvania and Harvard had tried
to raise their academic standards, admissions and
much-needed revenue dropped off. With the Johns Hopkins
University still in fragile financial health, he could not
afford a similar dilemma. And then there was the issue of
coeducation. How would the faculty respond? He could not
risk a repeat of Harvard's experience when, in 1878, Marian
Hovey's $10,000 offer to make the medical school
coeducational stirred great controversy among Harvard's
faculty.

The "Friday Night"
Photo courtesy Bryn Mawr College Library

Gilman and Welch tried to convince Mary to lower, or at
least compromise, her terms for admission. Every day, a
university trustee, a faculty member, or Gilman trekked to
Mary's Mount Vernon Place mansion to plead for a
concession. On January 26, a month after Mary had made her
offer, Welch reported that he could find "no indication
that she was willing to modify those terms." The medical
faculty voiced their own concerns about academic control.
On February 9, they submitted a document stating, among
other concerns, that the university should have the right
to determine under what conditions students could be
admitted and have the right to change the conditions when
mandatory.21

But they greatly underestimated Mary's resolve. Her years
of sitting in on railroad meetings, listening to her
unbending father strike deals, and, not least, having her
previous proposals rejected, finally paid off. She refused
to budge. Carey described the ongoing negotiations with her
usual dramatic flair: "The trustees get so angry they
[fling] brickbats at each other's heads."22

The debates dragged on through February. Finally, when all
parties appeared to reach consensus, Mary raised minor
objections, among them finding fault with an aspect of the
entrance examination and one of the course offerings, "a
chemical-biological course that required too little skill
knowledge for the medical students."23 The entire arrangement, so
near
to closure, was suddenly thrown into jeopardy.

It was touch and go, with neither side quite sure of the
outcome. Mary fretted fitfully. "Heaven only knows what new
difficulties will have been hatched and have attained their
full growth by that time," she wrote as she waited for
Gilman's and the trustees' final decision. She put her
faith in Charles Gwinn to argue for her conditions. "Mr.
Gwinn has been our counselor as well as our advocate," she
reminded Carey, who also worried about the down-to-the-wire
negotiations. To calm her nerves, Mary often rode out to
Montebello in the afternoons. "The ride made me feel a
little better . . . my heart has been beating in quite such
a suffocating fashion." In the final weeks, when Mary's
nerves frayed almost to the breaking point, Carey dashed
down to Baltimore from Bryn Mawr as often as twice a week
to keep the negotiations on track. "I sat up all night
preparing campaign broadsides," Carey later
recalled.24

At long last, on the day before Mary's February 22 deadline
and after nearly two months of nonstop discussions and
debates, all sides — the trustees, the faculty,
Gilman, and Mary — reached an agreement. To satisfy
the faculty's concerns over academic freedom, Mary modified
two paragraphs of her original letter to allow for special
circumstances, to "bring the terms of her gift into entire
accordance with the statement of the requirements for
admission to the Medical School which had been formulated
by the Medical Faculty and approved by the Board of
Directors."25 Finally,
she agreed to sign the documents.

With a stroke of her pen, Mary made the long-awaited Johns
Hopkins University School of Medicine a reality. It had
taken four years, but finally Daniel Coit Gilman had found
a donor willing to invest in medical education. But it was
not the "man of large means" he had hoped for. Instead, it
was a Baltimore heiress, whose father had helped the
university benefactor develop his philanthropic plan a
quarter of a century earlier in the family's home on Mount
Vernon Place. Although Gilman's 1888 letter to trustees
George Dobbin and Charles Gwinn had suggested that the
school would be named for the donor, only the endowment,
not the medical school, was named the "Mary Elizabeth
Garrett Fund."

Mary was thirty-eight years old when she joined the ranks
of the country's most renowned philanthropists, the same
age her father had been when he made his first major step
in the world as president of the B&O.

The day after the agreement was signed, the university
joyfully commemorated its seventeenth anniversary with a
convocation and celebration at the Peabody Institute, where
two years earlier famed Russian composer Pyotr Ilich
Tchaikovsky had performed. At the convocation, the Peabody
Student Orchestra played and the chorus sang. President
Angell of the University of Michigan, who had helped to
advise the trustees in the formation of the university
twenty years earlier, delivered the address.26 There was much to celebrate.
At
last, all the parts of the benefactor's great dream —
the university, the hospital, and the medical school
— were complete.

The simple, four-page announcement, with its
unprecedented terms and standards, revolutionized medical
education in the United States.

The trustees held a luncheon in honor of the Women's
Medical School Fund members and Gilman wrote a warm and
complimentary acknowledgment letter to Mary. "Medical
education for women and for men will at once receive an
impulse as a consequence of your generosity, which will be
felt throughout the land for years and years to come." He
added that "you have won the acknowledgements not only of
all the friends of the University and Hospital, but of a
much wider circle of persons who desire to see improved
methods of study introduced into medical colleges of the
country. I beg you to accept this personal expression of
most hearty gratitude." Commenting on the unparalleled
academic standards, Osler joked to Welch, "It is lucky we
got in as professors. We could never enter as
students."27

Mary had required that a "Preliminary Announcement" be
distributed by the required date of February 22, giving
public notice of the new medical school. The announcement
stated the new medical school "will be opened for the
instruction of properly qualified students, October 2,
1893. Men and women will be admitted on the same
terms."28 The
announcement reiterated Mary's terms, that candidates for
the medical school be "Graduates of approved colleges or
scientific schools" and have "a knowledge of French,
German, Physics, Chemistry and Biology."

The simple, four-page announcement, with its unprecedented
terms and standards, revolutionized medical education in
the United States. It provided a final vindication of the
often-agonized and polarized race between the university
and the Women's Medical School Fund. Unfortunately, the
announcement failed to mention one important point: the
name of the benefactor who worked tirelessly for four years
to make it all possible.

But the press did not overlook this important part of the
story. Once again, Mary's name was splashed across the
headlines. Unlike the earlier publicity in the spring of
1891, announcing her $100,000 offer, when the status of the
medical school remained unresolved, she might have felt
easier with the new wave of public accolades. "Enlarges
Woman's Sphere," the Chicago Herald pronounced.
"Miss Garrett's Princely Gift," the San Francisco
Examiner weighed in. Rev. C. T. Weede, pastor of
Baltimore's Exeter Methodist Episcopal Church, in a Sunday
sermon in early 1893 felt compelled to thank a higher
authority that the protracted impasse was finally solved.
"And who in our fair city has not felt during the past week
a thrill of pardonable pride that Baltimore has one woman
like the noble Miss Garrett who lays almost $400,000 at the
altar of science in connection with our beloved Johns
Hopkins?" The Baltimore American succinctly summed
up the twenty-year effort to open the medical school: "Miss
Garrett's Gift Solved the Problem."29

Much of the publicity focused on the unprecedented,
rigorous academic terms that accompanied the gift. The
Baltimore Sun wrote "Miss Garrett, in her letter,
sets forth the conditions of her gift clearly and
explicitly, not only that women shall be admitted, but that
their rights and privileges in the school shall be for all
time the same as those enjoyed by men, and further, that
the school shall be exclusively a graduate school. She is
[unwilling] to contribute at any time to the maintenance of
an undergraduate or partly undergraduate school."30

Mary suddenly found that publicity placed her in the
company of the great male philanthropists of the day.
"Never in the history of the world were there such general
and grand donations to charitable, benevolent and
educational purposes," the Philadelphia Call wrote.
"The example set by Mr. Childs and Mr. Drexel has been
followed by P. D. Armour and John D. Rockefeller. Now it is
announced that Miss Mary E. Garrett of Baltimore has
contributed over $300,000 to the endowment fund of the
Johns Hopkins University. The world at large is made better
by the existence of such donors."31

The New York Review of Reviews wrote an article entitled
"What Baltimore's Rich Men Have Done." In Baltimore, the
article noted, "we find about fifty-five large Baltimore
fortunes listed as equal to one million or more ... and
their wealth has been accumulated slowly and by old
fashioned business care and sagacity. Just one-half of the
names [belong] to men of a recognized disposition to be
generous. . . The most noteworthy of recent benefactions in
Baltimore is Miss Mary E. Garrett's check for $350,000 to
the trustees of the Johns Hopkins University." The
Philadelphia Ledger found that "for a long time it seemed
left to men alone, like Matthew Vassar and Henry M. Sage,
to remember that women also had wants of
knowledge."32

Not everyone was impressed. Delaware's Wilmington Journal
found little would change in medical education. "Women will
now have the opportunity to learn how to give breast pills
or listen sympathetically to a dear patient's enumeration
of all the diseases the human flesh is heir to."33

Within six months of striking the deal, the university
appointed additional faculty — in pharmacology,
anatomy, physiology, obstetrics and gynecology, and surgery
— to round out the medical faculty in preparation for
the school's imminent opening. Years later,
physician-in-chief William Osler jadedly commented to then-
university president Ira Remsen on Mary's blatant bribery
of the trustees: "We are all for sale, dear Remsen," Osler
quipped. "You and I have been in the market for years, and
have loved to buy and sell our wares in brains and books
— it has been our life. So with institutions. It is
always a pleasure to be bought, when the purchase price
does not involve the sacrifice of an essential — as
was the case in that happy purchase of us by the Women's
Medical Association."34

It had taken three tries, but Mary finally had "bought"
coeducation at the Johns Hopkins University.